Stephanie Foo's Memoir: What My Bones Know

I learned two critical things that day. First: Just because the wound doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s healed. If it looks good and it feels good, it should be all good, right? But over the years I’d smoothed perfect white layers of spackle over gaping structural holes. 

And the second thing I learned was: My parents didn’t love me. It's not as if I hadn't suspected this. There was that whole childhood abandonment thing, after all. But in my head, there were reasons and excuses for this. And now, for the first time, I saw the truth—the real reason they could not love me, had never loved me. I believe that they hated themselves too much to love me; their sadness made them to selfish to see me at all. The reason I hadn't been loved had nothing at all to do with me or my behavior It had everything to do with them.

There are people who love me. I will be cared for And I have my capable self. Everything is going to be fine. 

My parents didn't love me, and it's okay.

― Stephanie Foo, What My Bones Know: A Memoir of Healing from Complex Trauma page 111.